Chapter Forty Six: Lips and Wings and Secret Things, P.2

Eric

The conflict inside me was reflected on the shimmering surface of the pistol.

On days like today, I often wrestled with the thought of using the little thing. The opposing emotions within confused me and caused me the kind of pain that I had sworn I would leave behind nine years ago.

I had spent the day and most of the previous night consumed by guilt, shame, and my pitiful attempts at apathy, fiddling with life and death in front of my flickering fireplace. I had only left once, to watch the little flock of Girys make their exodus from the Garnier to the Cimetiere Lachaise and wallow in my culpability for their sorrow.

Bliant Giry had died that night. His weak heart had failed once he beheld my repulsive excuse for a face, and I could not find it in my heart to blame the man. Azadeh had always said that I looked like death on two legs, and Giry's reaction had only forced me to admit the truth of her jests. Indeed, he had been the second victim of my terrible curse. I could no longer find an excuse to hide the reality of what I was.

Death.

Yes, I was death itself, and had spent my life after that night growing accustomed to the idea. Mlle. Iglesias had told me ages ago that I was becoming morbid, and I had inwardly chuckled.

The girl had no idea.

If she only knew how I lived, much less what I was, the chit would flee in terror. My little hole in the dirt had become a sort of tomb in its own right, for my chamber was hung with funerary drapery and decorated with my own lengthy re-composition of Dies Irae, the Latin mass for the dead. I had abandoned my ancient sleigh bed in favor of a coffin long ago.

If the world was so determined to call me ghost or demon, and if my face was in itself a harbinger of death, why should waste my life fighting the obvious?

After that night, I had embraced the truth of my existence and allowed the voices in my head to run rampant. I now ruled the Garnier with an iron fist, having cowed those two imbeciles into abject submission. I occasionally enjoyed terrorizing the cast and crew with what some had named my 'terrible death's head'.

Of course, I never allowed them to do anything more than catch a fleeting glimpse of my unspeakable visage. Experience had proven that my face brought death to all who dared to come near it. Mitra had died trying to escape it, and Giry had followed suit. The gut wrenching apparition was, in a sense, the root of my power, for anyone who gazed upon it lost their life and entered my domain. All things dead and dying were mine and mine alone, for I was death! It was wonderful to wield ownership of something again, of anything.

Yet despite the empowering nature of such a hideous weapon, I chose to conceal it. It was an unpleasant thing to see the expressions on the faces of those who suffered from its evil.

And much as I secretly despised my employees for walking freely in the light while I was locked away, I had no desire to kill useful components of the finely tuned opera house machine. For the most part, I grew to enjoy my new identity as one of the living dead, reveling in the dark power that I possessed.

There were, however, always frustrating days such as this. Today the guilt of my crimes returned, ironically, to haunt the 'phantom of the opera' himself. Though I had long ago sworn off my attempts to believe that I could lead a normal life and feel emotion like any other man, I could not ever be completely free of such ideals.

I often railed at God, denying his existence and refusing to allow his moral codes constrain me. I shook off any bonds to the rest of the race of men that constrained me to care for the well being of anyone but myself. I was successful a great deal of the time, but guilt and emptiness still reared their heads within me on occasion. They preyed upon the small sliver of my soul that still desperately clung to its hopes of humanity, despite my best efforts to eradicate the stubborn thing.

Perhaps I could have succeeded in my extermination efforts if I were to stop seeing the girl. She was the only living, breathing creature that I could still bring myself to contact, save Mame Jules. I could justify my interactions with the gullible old woman, for I required her services to procure sustenance and make business arrangements. The girl though … she was the one indulgence from my days of hope that I could not bring myself to part with.

True, our little relationship was not as it once was, for I no longer allowed myself to touch her as I longed to. She was the only creature that I could not sully with my dark stain, and the only person to which I had not been able to apply my new fond philosophy of taking what I wanted from humanity, others be damned. I could not find it within me to taint her lips with those of a living corpse, even if she was still ignorant of my sinister secret.

My inability to take what I desired from her irked me to no end. Despite the fact that my thirty eighth year had begun that past January, my body had never known any woman's caress, except for her juvenile kisses and cuddles. Perhaps it was purely an unshakable sense of gratitude for her unknowing kindness that stayed my hand from taking advantage of her, but any kind of thankfulness stood directly in the face of the new mottos I had attempted to carve out for myself. If I could only let go of the man I had been all those years ago, I might have been able to act on my desires.

But the letting go never occurred. Her presence became more and more frustrating as the years passed by, for I could take her at any moment, but could not bring myself to do so. In an attempt to forget the girl, I began to see less and less of her. I could not give her up completely, as she was as addictive as any drug, but I ceased to kiss or touch her for fear of loosing my precarious grip on self control.

Besides, if I were to obtain my heinous goal, she would surely see my face. I knew that I could not bear to see her unblinking eyes staring up at me from the grave. While I certainly did not love the little chit, she was still a pleasant companion from time to time, and the only one I was ever likely to have.

"Besides, Eric," I wondered aloud, "whatever would you do with your spare time if she died?"

I had a point.

When I was uninspired to work, I often watched her go about her day. It was purely due to sheer boredom, but had eventually become a sort of mildly interesting sport over time. Tired of toying with my demise, I set down the little gun and headed for the subterranean lake and my rowboat, intent on finding something to take my mind off of my guilt and shame.

"She ought to be back from her errands." I mused as I took my seat at the oars.

After a little searching, I found her scurrying towards the commissary with several large bundles in her arms. Theed had obviously sent her out for spices again, and the two took up chattering.

Perhaps when the girl was done with her errands, she would go out to sketch for a while. I slightly hoped she would. It was rather pleasant to watch her work with her charcoals and chalks. And beyond that, her excursions were one of the few excuses I made to escape the gilded cage of my opera house.

She often frequented local parks and cafés, sketching for hours and oblivious to my well concealed presence. Sometimes I would pretend, as I watched her from a safe distance, that I was a normal man secretly perusing a normal woman. It was a bit more work than simply observing her from within box five's golden statue, but from time to time I found the fresh air inviting.

When Mame Jules had put a stop to her routine visits to my box, I had not interfered. The widow nearly believed that I was a God incarnate, after I saved her 'Little Meg', and guarded box five like a rabid bulldog. I was not about to put a stop to such a useful behavior, and besides, I had often worried that Mademoiselle Iglesias might somehow discover the opening to my secret compartments during the great amount of time she spent there.

Once in a while, I wondered what I would do if she were ever to discover that 'the phantom' and I were one and the same. Due to this irrational paranoia, and the more substantial risk of someday being discovered, I frequently altered my tunnels and secret entrances. Would she still come to me if she knew who I was? What I was?

"Of course not, you great dolt! No one would." I muttered under my breath.

As I listened to make sure that neither woman had heard me, the girl gave a slight jump and a little squeal. For several moments afterwards, she simply sucked in air, unable to speak as she stared blankly at Theed. It would have been so wonderful to have been able to tease her about such an uncharacteristic moment of silence, for she was usually quick with her dry humor and pessimistic tongue.

The cook also seemed to find the matter amusing, laughing heartily while Mlle. Iglesias caught her breath.

"Are you sure?" She managed to squeak out in a tiny voice. "She is … and she's …"

"Aye lass, as we speak." The older woman replied with a smile.

"Dios mio…" whispered the girl as she stood dumbstruck in the middle of the kitchen.

With a sudden burst of speed, she embraced Theed tightly and ran from the room as though the hounds of Hell were on her heels. I could barely keep up, and nearly missed her when she turned down an ill lit hallway to a stage door of the rehearsal stage. There she stood silently, her eyes bright and shining. She was breathing shallowly, and her lips were cracked and flecked with spittle.

But she failed to keep my attention the moment that the door was opened, for the voice that poured out from that door was familiar and roughly beautiful. It spoke of sadness and loss, and my heart stirred to hear another express the emotions that were hidden inside my own soul. It was a woman's voice, and though it was poorly trained, I could feel the pull of its potential even now. After a few desperate minutes of struggling through my passages, I found myself at the lookout just above the doorway where Mademoiselle Iglesias stood and nearly collapsed in shock.

Those lips, those beautiful eyes … that voice. God in heaven, that voice! I yearned to guide that melodious wonder to the greatest heights of the heavens themselves, to touch her delicate face.

And those lips … needless to say, those perfect lips spawned a thousand thoughts, and every single one was far too sinful to print.

By the time that Christine Daae's audition for the chorus had concluded, I had already sworn to find a way to make her mine. She would be mine, for she came willingly into my opera house, and all that remained within its walls was mine to claim.

Death and its power be damned, I would have her! She would be mine!

My Christine… all my patient years of learning to woo a woman had finally become meaningful. I had found my true love! Now for that little matter of introducing myself…

By this time, I had completely forgotten my original objective, and was startled to hear her speak below me.

"Gracias, Padre … Gracias." It was hardly loud enough to be called a murmur, but she appeared to be close to tears. In all my time around her, I couldn't remember ever having seen her like this.

Any interest that I might have had in the chit vanished as soon as she raced to meet Mademoiselle Daae. The two of them nearly fell to the floor as they flung their arms around one another. Christine began to weep openly as they kissed each other on both cheeks, and the other girl looked even closer to tears than before.

"Oh Leah! I have missed you so!"

"And I you, hermanita. And I you."

Perhaps it was high time for the 'angel' to dust off his wings.

Authoress's Notes: Darling reviewers, where art thou? I hope this longer chapter shall re-entice those of you I haven't heard from in a while.

♪Yes, in the original Leroux novel, Erik used a rowboat, not a gondola. I like the rowboat, and while I'm not fond of the man that was Leroux, I do like his writings. So there, that is my justification. :)

♫Yes, Eric is a fickle little imp, quickly believing that he has found a soul mate like that. What can I say, lust is a powerful emotion, men are not generally known for being the brightest crayons in the box, and hey, there is that whole matter of Eric being slightly INSANE. Yes, there is that.

♪Well, we are starting to get into familiar territory as far as plotline goes, and mine is probably going to lean heavily on the events of the original novel. Leroux all the way, baby! (High fives Fish and any other Leroux shippers out there. Oh no, I've gone and done it! When I started writing fan fiction, I said to myself, "Self, those hard-core shipper people are creepy. Let's not do that." Goes to show that I have no control over Self. I guess she's just a free spirit…) ANY WHO, I'm thinking about writing up a brief little summary about the plot line of the Leroux novel so that non-readers can follow my writings. How many people reading this have NOT read Leroux? (Shame on you, non-readers! Heretics! "Down, Self! Heel!" Sorry, I told you she's a free spirit…)I just want to know if I'm wasting my time by typing up a summary or not.

Kipper: Thanks for the review, dear. I want you to know that every one is a bright, cheery spot in my day! Yep, I used your saying, and you got a cameo. I don't know if you caught it or not, but I modeled a little bit of Mme. Olivia off you. I don't know your real name, so I named her one of my favorite names. (If I ever have a daughter, I want to name her Olivia) If you tell me your first name, I'll change it. I like to sometimes give reviewers little subtle shout outs in my story. :) Yeah, I'm not incredibly fond of the stories that have minors falling for a forty year old myself. Congrats on the tattoo! I'm actually giving serious thought to getting one myself. I have been for several years actually, but now that I'm old enough, I'm getting a little chicken about the whole needle thing. I still really want to get the tattoo (I designed it myself, and it has a lot of symbolic meaning for me) but I'm a huge needle-phobic, and it is taking a while to concur my fears.

JPT: Hey Amanda, this is Alana. Aren't you glad that we finally got ourselves married off? (To boys, not to each other, despite the poor grammar of that last sentence.) If you don't mind my inquiring, do you have any preference on what your make-believe hubby's name out to be? I wouldn't want to get the two of you hitched and then have the whole marriage fall apart cause he's got a really creepy name or something. ;) And hey, look everyone, auntie Joanie is back. (It's so much fun to insert you into the story.) Thanks for all your reviews and thoughts, they are very dear to me! And yes, poor, poor Larry, he is as bald as an egg…